


Click, Click, Click

by witch_brew



Series: An Eventuality [1]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novel)
Genre: Abuse, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Depression, Dont read this if youre easily triggered, Emotional Abuse, Gen, Gore, Guro, I cant think of anymore tags god dammit, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Mental Abuse, Murder, Other, Physical Abuse, Piss, Reader Has Issues, STRADE IS A BAD PERSON, Sounding, THERES A LOT OF ABUSE OK, Torture, Watersports, noncon, reader - Freeform, reader drinks too much, this is the grossest thing i have ever written, you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 12:32:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8578681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witch_brew/pseuds/witch_brew
Summary: You'd follow him anywhere. You always have.





	

**Author's Note:**

> SO THIS IS FUCKED UP HAHA. But yeah I apparently get inspired when I'm at work and angry and I write really violent unhealthy Strade fics so here you go this is gross.

It clicked.

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding. 

He squeezes again. Twice more. 

Click. Click. Click. 

“Told you, it's empty.”

He laughs. 

When he'd plucked the gun off of the mantel in the dead old man's home- (Which the two of you had sneaked into after the ambulance pulled away. He had been seventy. No family. Before he died, he would often shout at you and your friend as you played in your yard across the street.) - you had been frightened.

Guns are dangerous. You may be small, six going on seven, but you know this much. 

Your friend, a slightly older boy named Strade, had sen your fear and smiled meanly. He likes to scare you. 

"Don't worry," he said, "it isn't loaded. See?"

Then he pressed it against your forehead, right between your eyes, and pulled the trigger.

Now he's laughing. You let out a giggle of your own. 

(There is no way he could have known it wasn't loaded.)

You don't think he's mean.

A few of the girls at school swear he is. Swear that the sweet, amiable German boy with the pretty golden eyes would pull their hair when no one looked. Sometimes he'd pull chunks of it right out, they'd claim. You don't believe a word of it. 

He's your best friend.

Sure, sometimes he plays too rough. Sometimes you think he likes it too much when he accidentally knocks you down. When you skin your knee on the fall and cry and for a second you see something in his eyes that alarms you. 

Sometimes he's scary. 

But you don't think he's bad. You trust Strade. He's always taken care of you.

In his own way.

So you ignore it when he acts a little odd. 

A normal boy wouldn't have been able to fight that middle-schooler who had snipped your ponytail off on the school bus. 

(The older boy was in the hospital for two days. He had a concussion and the gash on his head from Strade slamming his face against the bus window again and again needed fourteen stitches. He didn't speak for two weeks.)

Strade was so pleased with himself. You say- to yourself and to others- that it was because he saved you. Protected you. 

(You both know it's not but he's your friend so you say it anyway.)

A normal boy wouldn't have done what Strade did. He protected you. Every time you are threatened, he is there to keep you safe. You can't keep yourself safe.

(What about when he got threatening? Who saved you then?)

You don't want a normal boy. You can put up with his quirks.

(Quirks like the time you fell from a tree and cut your chin open and before he'd go get an adult to help you he held your jaw to keep you from struggling and pressed a curious finger into the gash until you sobbed and begged him to stop? Quirks like that? You still have the scar.)

He. Protects. You.

"Come on, buddy. Let's check out the rest of the house." He says, holding out a hand.

He's put the gun back. 

You smile, all traces of fear gone. You're safe.

You're always safe with Strade.

(Even at six, you knew when you were lying to yourself.)

You take Strade's hand. 

You trust him.

You would follow him anywhere.

-

When you're ten he gets worse. He's only two years older than you.

First impressions mean a lot. You let him get away with too much. 

You're in your tree house with him. It's early fall.Your dad had built the little tree top shack for you a year before, at your request.

Strade dumps a sack out onto the floor.

It's an animal. It's hurt. A rabbit. Small.

The gashes down it's side can't possibly be from an animal. A human made those.

Your eyes mist with tears and you cover your mouth, gagging. He laughs at you. 

He hands you a hammer. 

"You have to do it." He says, quiet and demanding. "It's suffering."

You know, deep down, this is a test. He's testing how much control he has over you. You hate this. 

But he's your friend. He can't have done this. He wouldn't do this. He must have found it. Maybe he can't make himself do it.

(You know he can.)

Maybe he's trying to help you be stronger.

(You know the truth. Stop denying it.)

Your hands shake. You don't know if you can. You tell him as much. 

His eyes darken.

"Come on, buddy. Do you want me to do it?"

"No!" You say, way too fast. You wince. Quieter this time. "No. I'll do it."

You don't want his disappointment. 

(You don't want his anger.)

You lift the hammer, high above your head. Your eyes clench closed.

Right before you bring the hammer down, he whispers. 

"Look."

And you do.

You always to as your told. You always obey his orders. You don't want to upset him.

(He's got you trained.)

You crush its skull before running to the corner, collapsing to your hands and knees, and vommitting. You sob for ten minutes.

He comforts you.

You forgive him. He didn't mean to upset you. He wouldn't be so apologetic if he had.

(Or maybe he knows how to play you and isn't ready to show you how he really is.)

Eventually you offer up a weak smile and ask if he wants to go do something else. 

(Anything else.)

He agrees. He pets your hair.

(You feel a lot like the rabbit who's brain matter is staining the floor of your tree house. )

You don't go back into your tree house. Eventually your dad tears it down. 

-

You go to your first house party at thirteen. Strade takes you.

It's a Halloween party. You don't see many of your friends there.

(Strade doesn't have any close friends. Just you. And because of how possessive he is, you don't have many friends either.)

You talk to some people from school. Most of the people here are older than you though. You feel awkward. 

You want to go home.

Then Strade wraps an arm around your shoulders. You feel your cheeks head and you relax. 

(You shouldn't.)

He whispers something close to your ear. Apple bobbing on the back porch. He says it will be quieter there. He says you can get some air. 

You follow him.

(You always follow him.)

There's a girl out there. She's older than both of you. Older than Strade by at least a year. 

She gives Strade a smile. It's playful. Flirtatious. 

You get it.

Strade is beginning to gain more muscle as puberty takes hold of him. He's going from cute to attractive.

You're a little jealous. You aren't sure if it's of Strade or the girl. 

You're still small. Awkward. Too young for anyone to show interest.

Too young for him. 

You're just a cute kid who he keeps around so no one looks twice at him. 

You feel so out of place here. 

They chat for a moment. She flirts. She places a hand on his arm. 

He smiles at her. That friendly, easy going smile he gives everyone. He's so outgoing. He can get along with anyone. 

You've seen what he keeps to himself. He doesn't hide much from you anymore, you think.

(You're wrong. He knows you aren't ready for the worst he has yet. You're far too fragile.)

After they talk, she turns to the apple bucket. The water is a foamy red. Food coloring, to make it spooky. 

You aren't that impressed. 

She places her face in the water to try out her luck at catching an apple. 

Strade's kind smile shifts into something darker.

(Oh no.)

His hand moves fast. He grabs her by the hair, twisting it in his fist, and shoves her deeper, holding her under. She struggles. 

He's stronger than her.

You're frozen, rooted to the ground. Everything in you urges you to turn and run. Get help. Tell on him. Scream.

Strade speaks, a low growl. "Come here." 

You do.

(You always do.)

He grabs you with his free hand and jerks you to stand in front of him, facing the girl. She's still fighting, scratching at the bucket. At his arm. 

He grips both of your wrists in one hand and shoves them into the water. Forces your hands into her hair. His hand releases her, wrapping around one of your wrists.

He uses your hands to force her head deeper still. 

You're crying. 

He finally stops, jerking backwards with your wrists still gripped tightly in his hands. Tight enough for you to have bruises for days afterwards. 

The girl jerks upright, turning to face you both, face terror stricken and furious. 

Strade has your wrists in the air on either side of your head, holding you still against him. Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath. You realize how this looks. 

She looks at Strade for a moment before her eyes shift down to you, furious. Accusatory.

You know what she saw in Strade's face. Apology. False fear. Innocence. 

You know what he's doing. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" The girl hisses into your face, taking a step forwards. 

She hits you. 

Strade's hands tighten on your wrists. He doesn't like that. 

(But he has a game to play, doesn't he?)

He apologizes. He says he shouldn't have brought you. That you were overwhelmed. That you aren't good with strangers. 

She thinks you did it. He's going to let her think you did it. 

He's going to let her think he saved her. From you.

After a moment he guides you to a chair and sits you down. He goes to her side, speaks softly to her, offers her his sweater.

She turns it down, but smiles at him. She's clearly shaken. He speaks to her until she's calmed down. Before she goes inside, she slips him a piece of paper and shoots you a burning, hateful look. 

You have to say something, you can't let this happen.

"W-wait." You force out, voice cracking with emotion. "I- I'm-"

Both of them stare at you. Waiting. 

She still looks angry. You can't blame her for that. 

Strade... Strade's eyes are dark. But he looks almost curious. Like he's waiting for you to turn. To betray him. 

(He must be wondering if this was the final straw.)

You shake yourself. He wouldn't have actually hurt her. He doesn't do that. He's nice. Right? It was just a game, a joke, and when it went over badly he wanted you to take the fall, because that's what friends do. Right?

(You know that's wrong. Yet you keep denying the truth. He's going to hurt you if you keep doing this. You're going to get hurt.)

"I'm sorry." You whisper, staring at the ground. You aren't sure who you're speaking to. 

She let's out a noise. She doesn't say anything to you. 

When you look up, you're alone with Strade once again. You watch him crumple her number up and toss it over his shoulder. He walks over to you.

His grip on your arm is tight as he hauls you to your feet. He doesn't relax it until you're far enough from the party for the noise to have faded completely. 

After a while, he stops walking, turning to look you over.

You're visibly shaken, wrists bruised, arms scratched raw from the girl's nails. There are fresh tears on your cheeks. You're worried he's angry. You almost betrayed him.

He laughs.

He laughs and laughs and throws an arm around you, pulling you close and ruffling your hair, tucking a strand back behind your ear. 

"Good Hasi." He says, once he stops laughing.

You wonder why you aren't running away, screaming. You should be. 

You lean against him, sniffling. He pets you gently as he walks you home.

(You know what he is. Run before it's too late.)

-

You try to distance yourself once or twice. It never works. You don't really know how to function without him.

He has you completely under his thumb. 

Besides, you love it when he praises you. You love it when he's kind. 

You yearn for it. 

At sixteen he takes you out. He gives you alcohol. It burns as it goes down. You're a good kid whenever he isn't around. You don't drink. 

Unless he asks you to.

You do whatever he asks now. 

(It will take years to heal from this. If you even can.)

You sip the cheap beer he brought. He rubs your back.

You're in a small clearing, in the woods. He drove you here. 

He talks to you. You talk back. 

There's laughter. 

During a lull in the conversation, her suddenly grips you by the chin, turning your head, and kisses you hard. 

You let him.

You don't know yourself, you don't know what he's made you into over the years, but you know you like the way this feels.

He bites your lip and tastes the blood. 

It doesn't go far beyond that. After your 'date' he drives you home. When he stops for gas you get out to use the restroom. Outside the women's rest room is a wall of missing posters. Amber alerts. Some of them are over three years old.

One of them catches your eye. It takes a minute for you to remember where you know her from. 

A party. That party. 

She's been missing for two years. 

You don't say anything. You go back to the car. 

You convince yourself to believe it's a coincidence. You're pretty good at convincing yourself to believe things now. 

Strade takes you home. He rests his hand on your leg the entire time. 

That year your dad gets a new job. Your family has to move. You won't be able to see Strade anymore.

You pitch an absolute fit, screaming and breaking things and locking yourself in your room for three days. 

But in the end there is nothing you can do. You call Strade. You tell him goodbye. 

The day you leave, you see him. Watching your dad pull out of the driveway, you in the back seat, forlorn.

He waves. 

You cry the entire drive to your new home.

(You will never be able to be a normal person after this.)

-

It takes time, but you forget Strade. 

You don't heal. You don't realize how much he damaged you. You don't realize how unhealthy it was.

You grow up. 

You don't date. Don't have many friends. Your father passes away when you're twenty six, the last of your family. 

You're alone. But you don't mind much. You never liked many people.

(Just him.)

You begin to develop a bit of a drinking problem. You're sad a lot. You don't know why, and you don't seek help. 

You think you're okay. You think that this is probably normal. 

(It isn't.)

You don't see him again until you are twenty eight. 

You go to a bar, a friendly and warm place. 

You don't really care, you want to be left alone. You aren't good with strangers.

You order a drink and sip it in the corner of the room. Alone. 

You pull out a sketch book, worn with use, and begin to draw a rabbit. Flowers bloom from the cuts in it's body. 

You draw a lot now. Sometimes you sell your better work. 

You don't look up until you hear someone slide into the booth, direct across from you.

"Hi buddy, I noticed you sitting over here by yourself, figured I'd buy your second beer."

Your head snaps up so fast you get dizzy. His voice.

You meet his golden eyes. Your stomach drops. 

"Strade?" You ask, breathless. 

You haven't thought about him in years. You haven't dreamed about him in years. You were getting better. 

He blinks. He seems startled. 

Then he leans forwards, eyes narrowing a bit, and studies you. After a moment, his eyes light up in recognition and he positively beams at you.

"Hasi!" He laughs, looking incredulous. 

You knew what that word meant now. Rabbit. Bunny. 

You glanced at your sketchbook for a second, and then closed it, tucking it into your bag. 

(Run. RunRunRunRunRun. Run now while you still can.)

You offer him a nervous smile. 

"It's good to see you, Strade." You say, shyness seeping into your voice.

Even now you're still so submissive. So compliant. You can't do anything. You can't even move. 

He smiles. It's not the smile he gave that girl. Not kind.

It's the smile he gave you before he did something terrible. Before he made you hurt things. Before he hurt things. 

You tremble. 

(Not again. You can't survive this again.)

Your hand shakes when you lift your beer. You spill a little.

He notices. 

"You okay, buddy?" He asks, feigning innocence. 

You swallow, nervous. He can see it. He sees everything. He still knows you, even after all this time. 

(This can't be real. He can't be here.)

"I- I'm..." You swallow again. You can't form words.

He smiles again.

"Why don't you come with me?" He says. 

It's phrased like a question.

You know it isn't a question.

You rise, fighting back tears, and follow him out of the bar. He holds his car door open for you. 

There's no handle on the inside.

You get in anyway. 

(You always do.)

He shuts you in and you jump, closing your eyes and trying in vain to calm your breathing. 

He gets in on the driver's side. He starts the car. 

He rests a firm hand on your knee as he drives.

"I missed you, Hasi. Remember the games we used to play?"

You shake.

"Yes." You whisper, voice breaking a bit. 

You can never forget. 

You stare at the dashboard until he stops the car. He gets out. You start to look up when he opens your door, but his hand covers your eyes. 

"Look at the ground, Liebling. Keep your eyes closed." 

He doesn't even bother to disguise it as a question. A threat, unspoken, lurks beneath the surface of his words. 

You do as you're told, climbing out of the car, allowing him to guide you into the house. He walks you through it. Down some stairs. The air cools. 

"You can look now, Hasi." He breathes.

You look up and let out a choked noise. 

It's horrible.

If not for a few key elements, it would seem like a normal workshop. There were a lot of tools. On a desk, there's a laptop set up. The camera is lit up. 

There are also stains on the floor, the color of rust, and a young woman tied to a post in the center of the basement. She's slumped forward. 

You think she's dead until Strade walks over to her and kicks her in the thigh.

She cries out, jerking up and staring at him in terror. You let out a horrified gasp.

There are gashes, poorly stitched up, all over her body. 

Burns. 

You notice a few of her fingers are missing. 

You want to leave. You want to go home. You don't want to be here. 

"Come here, Hasi." Strade orders. 

You're reminded of that girl, all those years ago, and how Strade forced you to hold her under the water while you sobbed.

You go to him.

You want to go home.

Strade wraps an arm around you, holding you against him. He smells like sweat and oil and blood. 

The girl stares up at you. She begins to babble, begging you for help. 

You feel tears on your cheeks. You look away. At him. 

"Isn't she pretty?" He asks. 

You know that he expects an answer. He always expects an answer. 

"She's very pretty." You whisper. 

The girl begins to sob. She hurls insults at you. Calls you a freak. Says you're disgusting, worse than him. 

Strade kicks her hard in the gut. You hear something break inside of her. A rib maybe. She wheezes, voice failing her.

Strade steps away from you for a moment before returning. He presses a knife into your hand.

"Cut her." He orders. 

Your eyes go wide and you shake your head hard, stumbling back. You drop the knife.

You can't. You can't do that.

Strade's smile fades. His eyes go dark. Your heart stops beating. 

"Oh?" He breathes. And then he's on you.

He grips your hair, pushing you down on the floor. Your cheek scrapes against the concrete floor. Your head is turned to face her. 

You cry out. You try to fight him. 

He hits you once and you still, sobbing pathetically. The girl watches you, horrified. Her eyes are slightly glazed from pain.

Strade tugs your pants and underwear down your hips and you sob harder, begging him to stop. Apologizing. Promising you'll do as he says.

Your pleas only really seem to excite him, his touches growing even more violent.

"Don't worry, Hasi. I'm not going to kill you." He coos. 

You cry harder.

He shifts around a bit. You hear something metal scrape against the ground.

"This is going to hurt." He warns, and then you feel something press against the wrong opening.

Something metal is forced into your urethra. 

You scream. You feel your insides bleeding. It burns inside, and you scream louder when he pushes it deeper, twisting it. 

He groans, low, near your ear. 

He fucks your urethra with the metal rod for a bit before ripping it out. Your bladder lets go. You keep screaming. It hurts so much.

Strade presses his cock against your entrance. He forces it inside of you dry. You feel yourself tear there too. You feel blood dripping down your inner thighs, mixing with your rapidly cooling piss. 

He moans. You cry.

The girl watches. She's crying too. 

He fucks into you, hard and sloppy and fast. He pulls out for a moment to flip you onto your back before he re-enters your bruised and batter body, fucking into you even harder. 

His hands wrap around your throat. 

You can't breath. Within seconds your vision begins to blur and darken. You think, maybe, it will end. Maybe he'll let you die. Maybe you won't have to live through this.

He lets go. 

The lights are far too bright, and he laughs at the pained noises you make. You sob brokenly, begging him to stop. To let you go. To kill you.

He finishes inside of you, hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises, before he slowly pulls out.

He redresses you without much care for your pitiful sobs. He comforts you then, petting your hair. 

When you've calmed enough to focus, he offers you the knife again.

You take it. 

You won't disobey him again.

You approach the girl, and she stares up at you. She begs you not to do this. 

You cut her slow and deep, right across her left cheek. She screams and cries, almost as loud as you did moments before. 

You look at Strade.

"Again." 

Your next cut is just beneath her neck, a nice wide curve, from one collar bone to the other. 

"Stab her." He breathes.

You jam the knife deep into her shoulder. You watch her face as she screams, feel the scrape of the blade against bone. 

She's losing a lot of blood.

Strade approaches you from behind. 

"I don't think she's gonna last, do you?" He asks, crouching low behind you.

You pause. Your voice is very quiet when you answer. 

"No. I don't think so." You say. 

He holds out a hammer.

"She's suffering." He says. He's smiling.

You take the hammer and wipe the fresh tears from your eyes.

You stand. 

You don't close your eyes. 

You lift the hammer above your head and look into Strade's eyes.

He smiles at you. It's the same smile he'd give you back then, whenever you pleased him. Whenever you did what he wanted.

"Look." He says.

You do.

You bring the hammer down. Again and again, until their's nothing left of her face but pulp and gore and bits of her brain. 

You don't cry this time.

(You wonder if you'll ever cry again.)

Strade goes over to his laptop. He hits a few keys.

Click, click, click. 

You don't think you're going to go home again.


End file.
